Skin
by Lust-Defect
Summary: Skin...that's something the Dollhouse can never control. Paul's self-hatred and the tales in within Mellie's skin is something he'll tell himself the Dollhouse can't alter. Mellie/Paul


Skin. Flesh.

Thousands of poems and metaphors written with descriptions of knowing the soul from one's heart, one's eyes and actions. Which ones are written of the skin? Of skin that covers tales of dozens of different people? People with different styles, different life's, different lies. Paul makes his own distorted poem as Mellie offers her skin to his fingers and to his wanting flesh with a soft kiss. His fingers press almost painfully against her hip and he wonders if the harsh pressure will pull away the tales she doesn't know her skin has been telling.

"Mellie." He groans her name, sucking on the skin of her throat as if some sort of leech.

Pulling at the many times she's been injected, examined and touched on that area. She gaps near his ear and his grip tightens. Her right hand pries his face of her neck and their lips meet. She tries to stir the kiss into something soft and sweet. He forces it into a heated and desperate kiss, just quick to not make him realize his own lie. Her nails dig into his back and their bodies sway in a mess of temptation and he welcomes the pins of pain. He deserves it. A moan remains stuck at her throat as she moves along with him. Her face moves and she looks into his eyes with her own. Paul gazes back, wonders if this is an empty gaze; if it's another part of the imprinting process. She blinks hard once and sees something – he'll never ask what it was- that makes her turn her face and stare at their joined hands against the pillow instead.

He thrusts in deeper; reveling at her gasps and hushes calls for him. He tells himself that this is what the real woman would have done. She would have squirmed underneath him and kissed every inch of his face and if he were a statue made for gawking. Her back arches up at the same time that their slaps of skin become erratic. He slips his hand on the small of her back and trials a finger up and down its length. It makes her shiver and he tells himself that this is the truth. The physical is the physical and no amount of imprinting could change that…no amount of imprinting could change the small touches that make her tick…right? She whispers his name in a strained tone once her shaking is done and now he's lying atop her – careful not to put too much weight on her form-, resting his face in the crook of her neck. He nuzzles her neck for a moment before giving it a long lick. Mellie giggles; her chest rumbling with laughter and this is another glimpse of truth. Paul raises an eyebrow against her skin and speaks, the sound being muffled.

"What's so funny?"

"You licked my neck like a dog licks a piece of meat." He chuckles and she joins him.

"I can't help it, you taste that good." He murmurs, looking up at her reaction. She looks at him with a hint of adoration and hope in her eyes. Her body –underneath his- stays still, her skin holding back. He knows it's a lie. False adoration, false bouts of joy. He knows he deserves the knowledge.

Skin. Flesh.

It lays delicately over everything one holds. It keeps together the messes inside. Her skin yells out tales of an erratic balance of true and false, fact and make believe. Strong and gentle, her skin tell him he's no better. With swift brushes of their skin he feels the hypocritical call that tugs at his heart while his mind lingers on the "sickness" of the Dollhouse's clientele.

"Paul!" She squeals out his name when he grabs her from behind and pulls her to his chest. He leads her to the bathroom, turning on the water and making sure it's warm. He unbuttons his shirt from her and waits until they're both inside to touch his lips with hers. The water drips along her bare skin, warm enough that it doesn't make her shiver but puts a slight red-ish hue to her.

Truth.

Paul pushes her up against the showers wall, lifts her legs until there both around his waist. His left hand grabs her face, moving into her hair, curling inside gently. His right hand goes to her hip, squeezing purposely tight. It doesn't take long before they're both seated but by then he's already left a bruise on her.

Another truth.

He is capable of very little but this is an achievement he can take pride in. When she comes back it's still there and no bile is rising in his throat for the night, because he knows she hasn't been touched. Her skin hasn't been a thin barrier in between her imprinted memories and the memories that will newly enter her. At least not today.

It's three in the morning and she's offering him hot chocolate with chocolate chip cookies because she can't sleep either. So much chocolate, too much sweetness. He accepts her offer anyways and leaves his bedroom to sit next to her on his couch. She gets up for a moment to pour him his cup of chocolate and once the tips of her fingers touch it she pulls back her hand, as if in pain.

Truth.

The dollhouse can not change physical flares of emotion. Pain is still pain; the redness rising on the tips of her fingers is real. Technology did not bring this about, only the human body and its natural response. She giggles as if in embarrassment and he practically groans. One lie. Who knows what truly embarrasses her? Obviously he does not.

He sighs softly and pulls her hand in his. His lips brush on her red-ish index finger and thumb and there's a small smile twitching at her lips and her free hand is touching his neck.

Truth.

He takes her out to dinner, because one's own cooking must feel poisoning after some time. But then he thinks that perhaps it's not her cooking at all. The lights of the Italian restaurant are dim and shine down on her blue eyes. Truth. They shine regardless of emotion. She's wearing a deep blue shirt to match her eyes and a black skirt and he wonders if this is her style or the style a programmer felt was fit. He orders for the both of them when the waiter comes because by now he knows what she thinks she wants. It's only nine thirty but the silence in the atmosphere and the darkness outside makes it feel as if it were well past midnight.

"It's so dark." She comments as if reading his mind.

"I know…creepy huh?" He usually doesn't use words like creepy, but maybe she's a fan of the term. She shakes her head no and argues.

"I think it's pleasant."

"How?"

"I guess because it's always there, every evening but it's mysterious and hard to understand."

"I guess you're right."

"No, no, no you do not guess. You know I'm right." He chuckles.

"Uh-huh." She chuckles in return and goes back to watching the dark.

Lie. She could have only liked sunshine.

Truth. Her body seems to be pulling itself towards the night. Her skin understands that nature has a lot of secrets to reveal.

Mellie's hand briefly touches his and the feel of her skin against his makes him stop from playing with his food. Her eyebrows furrow and she's worried but he takes a big bite of his pasta and smiles at her. Lie. She could have not cared for his uneaten food. But maybe this part of her is real. He holds on to the sliver of hope. They go back to their apartments and he never passes through her door. Doesn't need to know there's nothing to see.

It's one again and he can't sleep. She's in his arms and she looks beautiful.

Truth.

Her skin is being illuminated by his lamp, her hair a bunch of dried sun rays resting on his chest and pillow. She looks innocent. She could have been dangerous. His fingertips trail circles on her bare back and soon she's awaking. She sees it's only two in the morning and groans but stays up anyways.

"Can't sleep?" She asks and her lips seem to tremble in worry. Truth. Skin of Mellie's lips are too soft to lie. Too pure. He nods his head against her shoulder and her hand snakes its way to his stomach. Skin. Flesh. Her touch is hot. Truth. Body temperature tells only tales of wanting, of health, of animalistic being.

"Would you like me to tire you?" She asks almost shyly. He gazes at her and notices the shade of blue in her eyes have gone darker. He leans towards her and kisses her deeply, mixing her tongue with his until they can not breathe as a response. The bed sheets fall on the floor as he connects with her hungrily, savoring the pain of her nails biting into his back. He thrusts into her deeper than usual, lifting her body into the best angle. She grasps around to touch him anywhere and he grins against her collar bone, leaving various hickeys. He groans atop her, the sound of their flesh smacking is his favorite soundtrack.

Truth. Flesh to flesh.

Skin touching, caressing.

Truth. Lust and basic need are not yet capable of deception.

It's four in the morning and their still not asleep. His skin is hungry once more and hers is almost glowing along the illumination of his lamp and the small rising of too much darkness in the sky. Their legs are entwined, while nothing else could ever really be this close between them. Her hand is over his heart and she looks up.

"Mellie?" He asks. He loves the way the six letters roll off his tongue. She could have hated the name.

"Paul there's something I want to tell you."

"You can tell me anything."

Truth. No lies in confessions. She's already taken his sanity, with flesh to flesh, unyielding skin.

"I love you."

Lies. Love is simply programmed….no reality in this particular science.

"I love you too."

Truth.

He touches her once more, sinking in the waters of eyes so blue and skin so honest.

He loves who he doesn't know she was and she loves for it's recorded in her borrowed mind. This makes him no better than the others.

Skin. Flesh. Hearts. Words.

Lies and truth in every corner that sanity should be lingering.

Skin. Flesh.

I love you…I love you

He deserves the angst in his life.


End file.
